


The Viper's Skin

by xxSparksxx



Series: And Then There Were Two [4]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vera is already in too deep. She sees that now, quite clearly. She is in too deep to escape unhurt when he grows bored of her, as surely he will. Her emotions are too deeply engaged to make it a clean break. She scrambles for something to say, something to offer him. Some way to appease him. There’s nothing. All her usual lies are unacceptable now, and the truth will make her too vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Viper's Skin

**Author's Note:**

> This…got away from me a bit. And it was hard to write. Vera developed insecurities and emotions (kind of) and sharp teeth, and it all got rather longer and rather less smutty than I planned.
> 
> I couldn’t have written this without rainpuddle13 and mmmuses cheerleading and helping me work through knotty problems. Thank you, my wonderful fic buddies!

Their rooms on the _Queen Mary_ are in tourist class.

Vera has never been out of the country before. She’s been the length and breadth of the country, Cornwall and Wales and then right up to Scotland, but she has never left Great Britain before. She has certainly never travelled in first class. Second class has always been good enough for her. Tourist class, they call it on the ship. Their cabin is modest. Two single beds, a dressing table, and two chairs set beside the port hole. A tiny wardrobe. There is a little bathroom through a door, where there is room for them both, as long as one is in the bath tub. She’s pleased by it all, and foresees a comfortable journey to New York. 

Philip complains about it. He is, she gathers, used to travelling first class on longer journeys. He grumbles, muttering curses under his breath when he stubs his toe against a chair leg. Vera watches him, hiding away her amusement with the ease of long practice. She can imagine him in finer surroundings. He had worn his dinner suit so easily, that first evening on Soldier Island. As easy as a second skin. But this is enough for her, and far better to hide away in the anonymity of tourist class than to stand out in cabin class. And they would have stood out. Philip might know how to move among the upper classes, but Vera does not. She can’t make a lie of it, for she’s not been around such people often enough to fake it easily. She would have stood out.

Yes, this is better, but still Philip makes complaints. At last Vera silences him by putting a finger to his lips, her amusement not enough to give her much patience with his criticisms.

“You said that we’re lucky to have the tickets,” she reminds him. Because that’s what he’d told her, last night after they had made up their quarrel. He’d called in a favour to get them tickets on the _Queen Mary_ , and they might easily have ended up in third class, or without tickets at all.

Philip kisses her finger, then sucks the tip of it into his mouth. There is a devilish look in his eyes. Vera knows it well, by now. He swirls his tongue across the pad of her finger, and then lets her go. 

“True enough,” he says. “By the end of the week I doubt there’ll be many passenger liners left running. It won’t be safe.” Vera can’t suppress a shiver. She was born too late to remember the Great War in any detail, but like all the other war orphans, she lives with the fact of it embedded under her skin. Like a brand, a scar that she has never been able to escape. It has affected her whole life. She’s too much a pragmatist to think that war can be avoided now, but even she, with her stunted empathy and warped emotions, dreads what is to come.

Philip sees her discomfort. He strokes a hand up and down her arm, like he’d stroked her back last night, when she’d stumbled into a moment of terror, of thinking that perhaps Philip would, after all, be like Hugo. That perhaps he would spurn her once she admitted the truth of what she’d done. He strokes her as if she’s an animal he’s taming. It’s not an analogy that Vera can wholly reject. She is, sometimes, a wild thing. She doesn’t have the feelings and sensitivities that most people use to cover their baseness. Humans are animals, after all, it’s just that most people don’t recognise it. Vera has no choice. She isn’t like other people. So perhaps he truly is taming a wild animal, coaxing her bit by bit into trusting him. 

She had given him trust last night, despite her fear. He had wrung the truth from her without even speaking a word. And Philip has not run. He is here, with her. They are going to the United States together. He knows what she is and has not left her to be alone.

Vera thinks that she likes these tender touches, the gentle moments that he has shown her last night and today. But she likes the harder touches, too. She likes when he takes her roughly, when he bites down on her neck or her breasts. He makes her spin her lies for him, rewarding her with a twist of his fingers on her clit or a pinch of her nipple, until neither of them can stand it any longer and he drives into her. One body, one flesh. 

His liar, he calls her. He makes her want to find new lies, to show off for him. Because he sees what’s beneath, and nobody else ever does.

“Vera,” he murmurs. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her, a warm brush of lips against lips. Then his hands slide down to cup her breasts through her blouse and bra, and Vera’s breath catches in her throat. “I like this blouse,” he says, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “Brings out your eyes.”

She _wants_ , her nipples hardening already, a pulse of lust throbbing into her cunt. He makes her so hungry, so full of desire. God, how she wants him. There is a bed just a few paces away, and the ship has only just left the dock. They will not be disturbed for hours, perhaps not until the evening. His eyes are dark. The corner of his mouth lifts, a smile that’s not quite a smirk. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggests. His hands fall away from her. Vera reaches out for support, grasps the back of a chair and takes a shaky breath. He knows full well what effect he has on her. He has more control than she does, if he can step away now.

“You bastard,” she whispers. 

“Such language, Mrs Lombard,” he says. His eyes glint at her, his mirth evident. Vera glances down at her hand, at the ring that sits uneasily on her finger. Mrs Lombard, she reminds herself. Married six months. Moving to New York for his work. The lie has not quite sunk into her skin yet. Being around others will help cement that. A mask is only a mask when there’s someone to see it.

“A walk,” she murmurs, still not sure she believes that he’s stopping this now. He knows what he does to her. He knows, he must know, how easily, how effortlessly he makes her ready for him. Philip quirks an eyebrow, a silent dare. Vera takes a breath and seizes control of her body through sheer force of will. “A walk,” she repeats. “If you like.”

She goes into the tiny bathroom, uses the lavatory and then splashes water on her face. It cools her. Her heartbeat is a normal speed again. Her cheeks are a little flushed still, but nothing extraordinary. Philip will see it, the undercurrent of want that she feels whenever she is with him, but nobody else. She returns to the cabin and takes his offered arm. 

His mask slips into place as easily as hers does. They are a united front against the world, the lie that she has crafted forming a protective shell around them.

They are not the only passengers to have decided to explore their temporary lodgings. The corridors are well populated with all kind of people, from elderly gentlemen to young children. Philip is charming, smiling at everyone, chuckling as a couple of little boys barely avoid colliding with his legs. Vera takes her cue from him. She is all smiles, all happiness. She is a wife not married long enough to have tired of her husband, heading off to a new country for a new life with him.

Not everyone is smiling. Not everyone is happy. There is a tension, sometimes hidden and sometimes not, in almost everybody they meet or pass. There is a constant murmur, a word that Vera hears again and again. War. War with Germany. She hears more than a few people speaking German. Jews, she assumes. Refugees, fleeing the Nazis.

Philip leads her up to the promenade deck. The fresh air is welcome, and Vera lifts her face into the wind as they pause at the railing. There are deck chairs at regular intervals, but nobody is sunning themselves yet, though there are others strolling around as they are. A young woman is standing as close to the rear of the ship as she can, facing back towards England. She’s been crying. Vera is fascinated, and can’t help staring until Philip jostles her slightly.

“Problem?” he asks her, in a low voice that nobody else will hear. 

“No,” she says. “No, I…” There is a lie sitting on her tongue. She is so used to lying that she doesn’t even have to think of one for a simple thing like this. Perhaps she thought that she recognised the girl, perhaps she looks like somebody Vera knew once. Any one of a dozen lies. They fall from her lips without thought, without conscious impulse, used to hide herself from the world or to get something that she wants.

But this is Philip. He knows when she’s lying. And though he doesn’t know everything about her, he hasn’t left her yet.

“Sometimes when I look at other people, people who – who feel things properly,” she says, “I wonder what it’s like, to feel like that. And I…I look at them so I can learn how to…” She’s stumbling over the differences that she’s never had to put into words before. She glances up at him, a mute plea for him to let the subject drop. Philip still wears a pleasant, ordinary expression. Nobody else, she guesses, would see beneath it. But she sees. There is a slight coldness in his eyes. Vera can see him assessing her. She doesn’t like the way it makes her feel, as if he’s judging her somehow. There’s nothing she can do about it. And, in fairness, there are moments when she does the same to him. They are still learning each other, after all.

He doesn’t comment on what she’s just told him. Instead he smiles a perfectly bland smile, and nods his head towards a map on the wall. “I think there’s a swimming pool somewhere below decks,” he says. “Fancy taking a look? I’ve heard you’re an _excellent_ swimmer, Mrs Lombard.” 

It’s subtle, and perhaps he doesn’t mean it that way, but Vera takes it as a reassurance that he knows what she is, who she is. A reassurance that he will not turn from her with each new truth that he forces her to tell. _Yes_ , he seems to be saying, _I still want you, twisted though you are_.

She shrugs one shoulder, casual and careless. “My bathing suit is in the trunk in the hold,” she says. “I suppose I didn’t think I’d need it.” Philip’s smile thins a little at the edges, turning him into something darker for a few seconds, and then he smoothes it away.

“Fair enough,” he says. “It’s a shame, though.” He doesn’t elaborate. Vera doesn’t ask. She remembers how he’d looked at her that day, when she’d opened her robe to show him her bathing suit, how it clung to her curves. She knows she looks good in that suit. The red sets off her pale skin. She hasn’t worn much red since Cyril died, preferring to camouflage herself. To fade away into the background, just another dowdy school mistress.

There is a red dress in her suitcase. She put it in there, rather than in their trunk, because she knows how men react to her when she wears it, and because she’d known there would be opportunities to wear it on the ship. People dress for dinner even in tourist class, though it won’t be as formal as cabin class. And there’s a lounge, she knows, that’s used for dancing in the evenings. She imagines it, her in her red dress and her one pair of good silk stockings. Philip in a suit. Together on a ship where nobody knows who they are, nobody cares. She imagines how he will look at her. He can look, here. There’s no more police to fool, no suspicion falling upon them. She is his wife, here on the ship. Mr and Mrs Lombard.

The lie is sinking in more with every passing minute. She must make sure not to fall so deeply into it that she begins to believe it herself. There’s been nothing spoken of emotion, in their relationship so far. She doesn’t know what he feels about her, or why he asked her to come with him. She can’t read him the way he can read her. And she doesn’t know what she feels for him, though obviously lust forms a part of it. Lust and a relief at being seen and accepted. She doesn’t love him. It’s too soon for that, far too soon. 

There are a couple of silver-haired women looking at the map, but soon enough they move on, and Vera and Philip step close to examine it. The tourist class areas of the ship are clearly defined, but generous enough. As Philip had said, there’s a swimming pool, and a gym, as well as more ordinary facilities.

“Smoking room,” Philip notes in a murmur. “Shame we’re not in cabin class, the betting will be higher there. Still, there’ll be enough.”

“Cards?” Vera asks, and he nods. They haven’t talked much about money. He has a little; she has a little. Enough to start afresh, enough to give them both time to find work. She hasn’t asked what, precisely, he plans to do, but she has a general idea. And Vera will find something secretarial, no doubt. Boring and mundane, excruciatingly so, enough to send her home at the end of the day wanting to scream. But she has to work. She has to earn. So she’ll grit her teeth and bear it, and in the evenings, at home…

Home. Such an unfamiliar concept for Vera, who has never had a home. And strange, too, that the idea of a home with Philip comes so easily to her.

There is movement behind them; other passengers, coming close to look at the map. Vera pulls on her new skin. “There’s a hairdressing salon,” she says to Philip. “I might go and see if I can make an appointment to have my hair done.” Vera slips her arm from Philip’s and gives him a gay, carefree smile. Sell the lie, she thinks. Nobody will look twice at a young married couple. “That’s if you don’t mind me disappearing for a while,” she adds, making it sound like a familiar tease. 

Philip follows her lead without hesitation. “You’re pretty enough as it is, darling,” he says, more fondly than he’s ever sounded before. “But go on, see if they can fit you in. I’ll keep myself busy.” Vera lifts herself up to press a kiss to his smiling lips. “I’ll probably be in the reading room,” Philip adds. “There or the smoking lounge. But there’ll be tea in the dining room at three-thirty, I think, so shall we meet there?”

“Perfect,” says Vera. Their eyes meet. Vera thinks she sees a glimmer of amusement in his expression, but it’s only for a moment. Then he’s tilting his head, a silent gesture of parting, and Vera makes sure her smile reaches her eyes before she turns and apologises to the woman behind her for being so long in front of the map.

The salon isn’t busy. They’re not even two hours out of Southampton, and the stylist confides to Vera that there’s been less custom for the salon on the last few journeys. People are too tense, too worried. The future is too uncertain. Normally the salon is packed, but the military escort ship is making people nervous. So Vera drinks an offered cup of tea while she waits or a chair to be free, and then she falls into the familiar routines of washing and styling. The lies trip off her tongue as she chats with the stylist. So many lies, so easily spoken. 

She finds Philip in the dining room at three-thirty, as agreed. He can’t seem to conceal his pleasure at the sight of her, with her hair glossy and curled for the first time since Cyril’s death, though he wears his pleasure in a more civilised fashion than she would see behind closed doors. He rises, holds her chair for her, and then presses a kiss to her knuckles before sitting down again. 

“You look lovely, darling,” he says. She thinks he wants to say something else, that ‘lovely’ is not a word he would choose, but they are in public now, and must wear their disguises. Banal conversation is the order of the day, between themselves and with the other passengers who share their table. Polite nothings, exchanged between strangers. Vera excels at this. Drawing room conversation, spun out over a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches and cakes. 

Later, much later, when they are back in their cabin to dress for dinner, Philip expresses his approval differently. He catches her by the waist and tugs her close to him, kissing her as though he means to steal her breath away entirely. Vera can do nothing but cling to him, fingers clenched in his shirt, meeting him kiss for kiss. He kisses her jaw, her throat, mouthing at her, his stubble a rasp across her skin. Then Vera finds the strength to object, to lift one hand from his shirt and to try to push him away. He likes to bite her neck. She likes him doing it. But not now, among other people, not when she already has bruises on her neck that will have to be concealed before she can wear her red dress.

“Marks,” she says, “marks, Philip, you mustn’t…”

Philip snarls and grasps her wrists with his hands, holding her still. Vera, trying to catch her breath, can’t suppress a shiver. He has found the hidden corners of her desire so easily, so quickly. He knows just what it does to her, for him to hold her down, pin her against a bed or a wall. It should scare her, the sharp contrast between her own strength and his, but it doesn’t. All she feels is excitement, desire, lust pulsing in her blood. Her body sings for him. And he knows it. He knows just what he does to her. 

“Fine,” he says, voice rough, eyes dark. “Not where anyone can see.” He releases her and, still holding her gaze, begins to unbutton her blouse. “Tell me,” he says, “how many lies do you think you’ve told today?”

“Dozens,” says Vera. The buttons are undone, and Philip slides his hands beneath the blouse, over her skin, pushing the garment off her shoulders. It falls to the floor. It will crumple, but it can be ironed. There are more important things to think about now, like the way he’s looking at her, the way he cups her breasts in his hands. Just like he had earlier, when she’d _wanted_ , before he’d teased her by suggesting they go for a walk. 

He’s thinking about that moment too, she can tell. The memory of it echoes between them. His thumbs rest on her nipples, through the thin fabric of her bra. Not moving, just a gentle pressure.

“My Vera,” he murmurs. “You wanted me to fuck you earlier, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she says. She could lie, she could dissemble, but not with Philip. He won’t let her, and anyway, she doesn’t want to lie to him. Not now, anyway. Not about this. There’s no reason to lie. She wanted him to fuck her then, and she wants it now. She wants to feel his cock sliding into her, to clench around him. She wants to scratch his chest and mark him afresh as hers. Her Philip, as much as she’s his. Possessing each other, a perpetual circle, like a snake swallowing its own tail.

“Yes,” she says again. “I wanted you to fuck me.” She reaches behind herself, to the clasp of her bra, and flicks it open with practiced ease. A wriggle of her shoulders, and the straps dangle down. His hands covering her breasts are all that keeps the bra from joining her blouse on the floor. His pupils have dilated. A muscle in his jaw twitches. He had displayed control, earlier, but in truth Philip is no more unaffected than she by the thing that ripples between them. She glances down; his cock is hard, his trousers tight across his groin. Vera is triumphant at the sight of it, at the reminder that she has this power over him. 

It must show in her face. Philip’s eyes narrow a little and then he moves his fingers, catching her nipples between thumbs and forefingers. He _pinches_ , cruelly hard. Vera chokes on a moan, catching it before it can form properly. The pinch sends a shock right through her body, rippling shockwaves of lust that centre around her cunt. The triumph is gone in an instant. Philip is too good at playing her, knows too many of her weaknesses, and he will not let her gain the upper hand without a fight.

But Vera knows a few of his weaknesses, too. 

“I wanted you to push me down on the bed and fuck me until I couldn’t think about anything else,” she says, because Philip likes it when she talks. Not just when she tells him the lies that she can make others believe, though she thinks that he likes that most. He likes it when she talks about what she’d like him to do to her, what she’s thought about him doing. Vera has never done this with anyone before, never removed the guard from her tongue and spoken honestly, bluntly, with a lover. She has always had to pretend, before. To lie and fake her way through everything, including sex. But she doesn’t have to pretend with Philip. She can be honest, with her body and her words, in a way she’s never been able to be in her whole life. 

He rolls her right nipple between his fingers, a gentler touch, not pinching now. “I thought so,” he says. His voice is still rough, his accent particularly pronounced. 

“I felt so _empty_ ,” she says, softly now, and deliberately breathless. Philip’s eyes are fixed on her, unwavering. Hungry, just as she is. Vera puts her hands over his, on her breasts. Then his hands slip away and Vera is touching herself. Her hands are small, and colder than his, and the difference in touch makes her shiver a little. Her nipples are already hard, achingly so, and when she twists and rubs at them, the ache makes her moan. “I feel empty now,” she gasps. She slips one hand down, across her belly. Her skirt fastens with two buttons at the waist, and she unfastens them now to give her space to slide her hand down further, into her knickers. She isn’t lying. She does feel empty, the muscles in her core clenching around nothing, the folds of her cunt wet, soaking into the cotton of her knickers. She wants him to fill her, to feel him press into her and make the ache stop. Even her own fingers will be better than nothing.

“No,” Philip says, seizing her wrist once more. His grip matches the bruises that she wears as a bracelet, fingers over fingerprints. “No,” he says again, tugging her hand up, out of her skirt and her knickers. The skirt falls over her hips. The bra drops to the floor. She stands almost naked before him, and he is still fully dressed. But Vera won’t let him wrest the advantage from her so easily.

“Do you like my hair?” she asks, tossing her head so her curls flutter and then resettle into place. Philip tilts his head, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He doesn’t understand why she’s asked that. Vera smiles. “I haven’t had it curled in months,” she says. “Not since…the accident.”

He smiles, a slow, creeping smile that spreads right across his face and reaches his eyes. “Oh, you are a piece of work,” he says. His tone is all admiration, and Vera is filled with gleeful pride. She presses close to him, reaching up on tiptoe, demanding a kiss. Philip obliges, nipping at her lips, stroking his tongue against hers. His hands grasp her buttocks, pulling her up against him, like he’s trying to pull her under his skin. 

“How long do we have before supper?” he asks. He’s just as breathless as she is, now. 

“About an hour,” Vera says. She tries to unbutton his shirt, but he’s got too firm a hold on her, has her pressed too tightly against him. Instead she slips her hands under the waistband of his trousers, tugging the shirt out. Philip presses kisses to her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead. She closes her eyes and he kisses her eyelids too. The gentleness of it is a sharp contrast to the way he’s kneading her buttocks, groping at handfuls of flesh.

“And how long will it take you dress?” he asks, guiding her back a step, then another, until the bed hits the back of her legs. 

“Ten – maybe fifteen minutes,” she answers. Philip smiles, all dark glittering eyes and shark’s teeth. Vera shudders a little. “Plenty of time,” she breathes. He lets her go and, balance lost, she sits abruptly on the edge of the bed. Philip stares down at her and begins to unbutton his shirt. Vera wriggles out of her knickers and stretches out, putting her hand between her legs as she’d tried to do earlier. He’d stopped her then, but he’s busy undressing now. She slides a finger against her clit, and then skims lower, into the slick folds of her cunt, right into her core. She sighs; one finger isn’t enough, but it’s something. She adds another finger, still not enough but better. She’s loose enough to take a third finger, after four days of Philip’s thick cock thrusting into her again and again. She angles her hand so she can press her thumb against her clit.

“I wonder if I can come before you’re undressed,” she says, feigning a casualness that she doesn’t feel. What she feels is urgent, an unquenchable desire that she is desperate to appease. But this is a game, now, as much as a slaking of lust. They’re both playing it, and Vera is determined not to lose. Not this time. Not that losing is so bad, not when Philip is involved. His victories are hers too; he makes sure of it. But winning has its pleasures, too.

“God, you’re so wet,” Philip says. There’s a pleasing note of awe in his voice. “I can _hear_ you.” He’s fumbling with his buttons, too preoccupied with watching her to give much attention to undressing. He’s not trying to stop her, not like he did earlier. Vera arches her hips against her hand, grinding her thumb against her sensitive clit. She makes a show of it, spurred on by the look on his face. Her fingers, thrusting into her core. Not as good as his fingers, not as good as his cock. That’s what she really wants, but not yet. Not yet. 

“I want – _oh_ – I want you to _watch_ ,” she says. It won’t take much, now. She’s too worked up, shivers of arousal rippling through her whole body. A familiar build-up of electricity, centred on her clit. A few more strokes, Philip’s eyes fixed on her, her thumb moving faster and faster against the swollen flesh. It won’t take long. “Want you to – to – _oh!_ ” Her hips are moving without conscious thought, surging up against her hand. Philip curses, pulls at his shirt, and sends a button flying into a corner of the cabin. Out of control, Vera thinks. In this moment, she has so much power over him. 

“If you come before I even _touch_ you…” Philip says. It isn’t clear whether it’s meant to be a threat or encouragement. Vera doesn’t care; either way, she has her victory. And she doubts this will be her only orgasm of the evening. 

She can’t form words to respond to him, reduced to whimpers and soft cries as she gets closer and closer to a peak. Her hand moves faster, furiously. She flings her head back, shuts her eyes, too lost in physical sensations to watch Philip any longer. She hears him, though. He curses, breathless, and then there’s a thud, like he’s dropped something. She can’t look up, she’s so close, so close…

He knocks aside her hand. Vera doesn’t even have time to protest before his mouth is at her cunt, all teeth and tongue, licking and sucking. His tongue thrusts in where her fingers had been, as deep into her as he can, and then he moves to her clit, fastens his mouth around it and _sucks_.

She comes at once, her whole body spasming, muscles tensing, mouth parted in a soundless cry. Philip is relentless, dragging her through the orgasm, excruciating pressure at her clit. Then he adds his hand, fingers into her core, deeper and wider than her own had been. She’s still wet, still desperate for him. He works her to a second peak and this time Vera does make noise. She cries out, shaking uncontrollably, hands grasping the bed sheets to keep from pulling at his hair.

Then it’s over. Vera is boneless on the bed. Languid, she can hardly keep her eyes open. She hears Philip gasp, and assumes he’s found his own finish. Then there’s movement, a rustling of clothes. She opens her eyes enough to see him strip, and then he joins her on the bed, pulling her close against him. It’s a single bed, there’s hardly room for them both, but she rolls onto her side and rests her head on his shoulder. They just about fit, curled together like this. He strokes a hand up and down her arm. Vera fills her lungs with the smell of him, his soap and his sweat. She feels relaxed, and warm, and safe. 

Safe in the arms of a killer. She shouldn’t let herself feel like this, she shouldn’t let her guard down. He has done terrible things, worse than her own crimes, things that should fill her with fear and disgust. And yet she feels safe.

There’s a scar on his abdomen, faded but still whiter than the skin around it. It’s small, barely an inch long and less than half that wide. Vera traces the line of it with her forefinger. Philip twitches, just a little. Just enough for Vera to know that he tends towards ticklish. She smiles, and tucks the knowledge away for another time. Then she flattens her hand and soothes any trace of a tickle.

“How did you get this scar?” she asks.

“Do you really want to know?” Philip asks idly. Like a great cat who has had a good meal and now feels itself disturbed by an energetic cub. His voice is a low rumble. “You’ve never struck me as the bloodthirsty type,” he adds. She isn’t, but she still wants to know. She tilts her head up, craning her neck to look at him. Philip’s staring up at the ceiling, but after a moment he blinks and gives her a slow, lazy smile. “I got it in a knife fight,” he tells her. “A long time ago.” 

Vera tries to imagine a younger Philip, perhaps less confident, perhaps not yet blossomed into manhood. She can’t quite picture it. She traces the scar again, and this time Philip catches her hand before she can turn it into a tickling touch. He links their fingers. It’s an intimate gesture, one that she would have liked to pull away from. Or perhaps it’s that she would like to _want_ to pull away from it, from the perceived intimacy. It feels too much, somehow. 

If Philip can tell that she’s feeling overwhelmed, he doesn’t reveal it in word or action. He brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her thumb. Vera suppresses a shiver. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling, and she loathes it. She loathes uncertainty. She closes her eyes and reaches for a mask, but it’s no good. Philip sees through her masks. If he chooses to press her, if he sees her uncertainty, there’s nothing Vera can do to defend herself. He will drag the truth out of her, as he had done last night. He doesn’t even need to speak to do it.

She has lost the safety that she had felt only moments before. But it isn’t Philip that’s caused the loss, it’s her own half-feral instincts. She has never shared intimacies with anyone before, not even Hugo. She has never been safe anywhere. She has never been…

“Shh, don’t do that,” Philip murmurs. He’s sensed something. Of course he has, with those impeccable instincts. He holds her a little closer, a little tighter. Her fingers slip from his. Vera clenches her teeth and presses her lips together. She can’t help shivering, now. Philip strokes his hand up and down her arm. “Stay with me, Vera,” he says softly. “Come on, darling.”

Slowly she relaxes again. Tension leaves her body. Philip keeps stroking her, until Vera turns her head to press a kiss to his chest. Then he just holds her, and they are silent together. Vera’s mind is curiously blank. She drifts in a warm sea, anchored by his arms. There is nothing but this. Nothing but this moment, spun out into eternity, marked only by heartbeats and the gentle, distant rumble of the ship’s engines.

It has to end, of course. They have to dress for dinner. Eventually they move. Vera sits up first, and stretches, and Philip sits up a moment later and presses a kiss to her neck. Another tender moment, too intimate for Vera to acknowledge, but she doesn’t have to acknowledge it. Philip follows his kiss with a gentle pinch to her earlobe.

“You take the bathroom first,” he says. Vera is glad to agree, fleeing before he can do anything else to destroy her equilibrium. 

She doesn’t spend long in the bathroom. Careful of her new curls, she washes her face and between her legs, dries herself with a towel, and then goes back into the cabin to dress. Philip’s glance is appreciative as she bends over her suitcase, but then he disappears into the bathroom for his own wash. Vera is left in peace to find her silk stockings, her nicer suspender belt, the red dress. Make-up, to cover the marks on her neck, the marks of possession that he’s left. She can’t do anything about the bruises at her wrists. At least the sleeves will cover most of her arms. There’s even a red lipstick, buried in a corner. Red does suit her so well. Vera bought it a few days ago, in Southampton, flushed with the awareness of how Philip might look with his own mouth reddened from kissing her.

Philip returns before she has even begun to dress. He comes to stand behind her, hands at her waist, his chin resting gently on her shoulder.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asks. There’s an odd note in his voice. Vera can’t quite put her finger on what it is. 

“Yes,” she says. Then, innocently: “Don’t you like me in red?” 

“Oh yes,” Philip murmurs. “I do indeed.” He kisses her neck again, then steps away. Vera reaches for her knickers, but quick as lightning, Philip plucks them from her hand. Vera whirls around, gives him a frown that he ignores. “Leave them off,” he says. There’s something devilish in his eyes, and he’s smirking at her.

“Leave them – my knickers?” Vera exclaims, more shocked than she should be. He’s done so many shocking things with her, and to her, but this…she did not expect this. “I can’t,” she says. “It’s not…”

“Not what?” Philip taunts. He knows what she’s going to say before she says it. Vera’s cheeks are warm; she’s flushing. 

“Not decent,” she says, though she knows he’ll laugh at her for saying it. She’s not decent; nothing about her is decent. Less than twenty minutes ago she was on her back, touching herself while he watched. And yet…

“So be indecent,” he says. He’s daring her, goading her into it, and Vera can feel herself rising to it. She has a competitive edge. It’s what made her a good games mistress, after all. “Leave them off,” Philip goes on. His voice drops low, dark and rough. “I’m going to spend all evening thinking about fucking you in that red dress,” he tells her. Vera is held still, captured by the way he looks at her. “I want you to be so wet, I’ll just slide right in.” Her lips part, but she can’t speak. Philip’s smirk fades away, and he tilts his head a little. “All I’ll have to do is shove the skirt up,” he says. “No knickers to get rid of. And you’ll be wet and wide open for me. Won’t you?”

“Yes,” Vera whispers. There’s no other answer possible. Of course there isn’t. Philip gives her the knickers, and she puts them back into the suitcase. He looks at her like he wants to say something, to praise her perhaps. Vera doesn’t like that she wants his approval, but she’s known it about herself since Soldier Island. She’s known, since then, that she wants Philip to approve of her, to like her. She wants him to _accept_ her. If he murmurs praise now, if he calls her ‘good girl’ as she suspects he wants to, she’ll bridle but some dark part of her will be pleased.

But she isn’t obeying for praise. She isn’t submitting because she wants his approval. She likes these games as much as he does. She obeys because she knows she will gain as much pleasure from it, by the end of the evening, as he will. So Vera lifts her chin and raises an eyebrow, daring him to say something. Philip takes the hint. He chuckles, but retreats to the other side of the cabin, to rummage in his own suitcase for his evening clothes.

Vera dresses swiftly, aware that there’s little time left before dinner is served. The suspender belt feels strange without knickers beneath it, but Philip’s warm glance makes her resolve to get used to it. Silk stockings, red dress. No brassiere with this dress, but it has support built into the bodice. She sits at the dressing table to carefully apply the make-up to her face and her neck. She conceals the bruises so easily that Philip remarks on it.

“Done that a lot, have you?” he asks. He’s dressed already, all but his tie. Vera glances up at the mirror; he’s sitting on his bed, watching her. “Covered up bruises,” he clarifies.

“A few,” she confirm, but won’t say more. He’s had too many secrets from her today already. Philip arches an eyebrow but doesn’t press her. She’s grateful for it, and in return gives him a soft, contented smile. It’s not a lie. She _is_ content, here in this little cabin, on this ship bound for another world. She is content, and so she offers a gentle curve of her lips as gratitude for him letting her keep this secret without fighting for it.

She puts on her lipstick, blots it carefully, and then slips her feet into the shoes that match the dress. All her other clothes are staid and conservative and thoroughly in keeping with a young teacher who does secretarial work in the holidays. These are the last remnants of a different life, when she had revelled in the power her appearance gave her over men. Red dress, black heels, freshly-curled hair. Red lipstick. Perfect. She sees Philip’s appreciative glance, and it fuels her confidence. She can be this person again.

They go to dinner, Vera on Philip’s arm, smiling at everyone, aware of the way she draws attention. Aware of the looks that Philip garners, as well. He’s handsome, and charming when he chooses, and there’s more than one woman who gives him a second look. Vera is amused by it, or at least she tells herself that she’s amused. They are here together, and as long as they are on the ship, Philip cannot safely turn away from her, or even look for long. So she isn’t jealous, but amused, and besides, she is turning heads too. 

The food is excellent, the company no more interesting than it had been at afternoon tea. The table comprises the same people, dull and ordinary, as before, and already some of them have begun to repeat themselves. War, she hears, nothing but war. Germany and Hitler and Jews and fear. Vera is afraid, of course, but she could wish for more varying subjects.

There’s a young woman seated beside her, Sophie Benoit, who hadn’t been at tea. She looks on the verge of tears. She’s Jewish, Vera realises after a while. A French Jew, though her English is nearly flawless and there’s hardly a trace of an accent. She says little, but as the discussion grows a little heated between several of their dinner companions, she grows more and more upset. Vera is so used to dissecting other people’s expression that she can see it clearly. The compressed lips, the slight tremble of the woman’s hand as she holds her cutlery, the way she blinks too often, as if to keep away tears. 

Vera has no reason to do it, but she leans towards Philip and murmurs in his ear. He lifts an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but he nods agreement. Vera strikes up a conversation with Miss Benoit, and Philip steers the others away from the inflammatory subject of war with Germany. 

Afterwards, when everyone is rising, to scatter to the lounge or the smoking room or the library, Miss Benoit clutches Vera’s hand and thanks her. Vera waves it off. She doesn’t know why she felt compassion for this girl, when she so rarely feels compassion for any living creature. Perhaps it’s the lie, sinking beneath the skin, making her other than what she is. But regardless of why she did it, she doesn’t want thanks. 

Philip takes advantage of the general noise and disruption to give her a quizzical look. “Not that I mind – the conversation was boring as hell – but why?” he asks. Vera shrugs. She has no answer. Philip looks at her for a moment more and then shakes his head. “You know,” he says, “just when I think I’ve got a handle on you, you do something I didn’t expect.”

Vera smiles, and tilts her head. “They say variety’s the spice of life,” she says. She’s flirting, just a little. Just to see how he’ll respond. She’s out of practice, but it’s easy with Philip, who looks at her now with an amused glint to his eyes and a lazy smile on his mouth. It’s easy when she thinks about what he plans to do later, once they retire to their cabin.

“Indeed it is,” Philip agrees. “Well, shall we go?” He holds out his hand for hers; she takes it, and follows him up through the ship to the lounge.

There’s music in the lounge, and drinks, and dancing. They find a table and Philip goes to the bar to order drinks. Vera’s foot taps to the music, an upbeat jazzy number. She hasn’t danced in a long time. There’s a lot of things she hasn’t done in a long time, and it’s only now, freed from the weight of the past that for so long had hung around her neck, that she can begin to remember how to be carefree. How to be vibrant.

A man comes to the table before Philip comes back. He’s tall and skinny and his face is liberally spread with freckles. He introduces himself as Mr John Wainwright, and would she care for a dance? Vera hesitates; Philip is weaving his way back through the tables, drinks in hand. She can’t imagine him dancing, or at least, not this kind of dancing, fast and swinging. He’s too careful, too contained, every move he makes considered and controlled. Still, she won’t accept Mr Wainwright’s offer without giving Philip the choice. 

She suspects he’ll mind, seeing her on the dance floor with someone else. She already knows he’s possessive, that he likes seeing his marks on her. She knows well enough that jealousy usually goes hand in hand with possessiveness. She feels both herself, after all. It could be a dangerous game, to dance with other men while Philip watches. But then, it’s dangerous being with Philip at all, given what he is and what he’s done. She doesn’t think he’d really harm her, not even if she provokes him. He’s hurt her, yes, but nothing that she’s not enjoyed. The pinches, the bites. She wonders how far he’d go, if she provoked him into jealousy.

The thought makes her skin prickle, makes heat spread throughout her body. She presses her thighs together. Yes, this could be dangerous. But how deliciously dangerous, if he _is_ jealous, if she _does_ provoke him. 

“Philip, dear,” she says, as Philip reaches the table. “Mr Wainwright has asked me to dance. Do you mind?”

Philip sets the glasses down on the table. “I suppose it would be unkind of me to say no,” he says, so lightly that it sounds like a tease. He’s smiling. Vera knows she’s probably the only one in the room who can see more than charm, in that smile. “Go on,” he adds. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll enjoy the view.” His glance drops to her legs, just for a moment, too quickly for Mr Wainwright to notice or comment on. But Vera feels it, feels the heat of his gaze. Her legs were the first thing he noticed about her. Dancing will show them off. An amicable arrangement, then. She’ll enjoy dancing, and he’ll enjoy watching. Perhaps he won’t be jealous, after all.

She dances two dances with Mr Wainwright, and another with a Mr Henderson. She means to go back to Philip then, but she’s intercepted, and she dances with Mr Wainwright again, and with a young man who insists she call him Billy, and then with a brash young American who claims to be something special in intelligence services. Vera doesn’t believe him, but he dances well enough. She enjoys the dancing, if not always the company. And always, always she feels Philip watching her. Sometimes she’s caught a glimpse of him, his dark eyes fixed upon her, but mostly it’s just a feeling. Like a sixth sense, a prickling of her skin that tells her she’s under scrutiny.

When she finally begs off dancing, she’s flushed and thirsty. She waves away the protests of her latest partner, and goes back to Philip. There are other people at the table now, a middle-aged man and his wife and an older man, a professor-type. Philip has been chatting to them, but his attention is on her as she returns to the table.

“Having fun, darling?” Philip asks her, pushing her drink towards her as she takes a seat. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he explains to the others. He’s amiable, though not as charming as he had been earlier. There’s a look in his eyes, a dangerous glint. She’s seen it before, but not for some weeks. Not since Soldier Island. He is the hunter, the predator, the great cat stalking his prey. The dancing had warmed Vera, but now she feels a chill running down her spine, and goose pimples spread across her skin. She has never felt so much like his prey. 

But this is what she wanted, she reminds herself. She had wanted to provoke him. She had wanted to see what he would do. It was a game, more dangerous than some of the others they’ve played so far, but that’s all. A diversion, an enticement.

Vera meets Philip’s gaze and remembers that she has seen him kill a man. She has miscalculated. She has overstretched herself. She feels fear clawing into her stomach, into her throat.

“Great fun,” she says, reaching for her glass. A sip of the cocktail revives her a little, gives her the strength to finish her performance while there’s still an audience. “I’m sorry I left you so long, Philip dear. And to make matters worse, I’ve rather worn myself out. Would you mind terribly if I retire early?” 

“Not at all,” says Philip. “I’ll come with you.”

They finish their drinks and take their leave. Philip puts his arm around Vera’s waist as they go, and she’s sure that nobody else will see it as anything other than a charming gesture from a man deeply in love with his wife. She knows better. He’s holding her firm, keeping her at his side. Stopping her from running and hiding, from lying her way out of this. There is no escape, there is no lie she can sell to him. He won’t believe anything but the truth, and he’ll know if she lies.

He locks the cabin door once they’re inside. Vera sits down at the dressing table and takes off her shoes, wipes her mouth free of lipstick. Philip stands beside the door, watching her. He’s silent. His silence is so much crueller than his words, and she hates him for it. She won’t break first, not this time. She’s determined that she won’t break first. She sits at the dressing table, hands clenched together, and looks at the tube of lipstick that she’d left there earlier. 

Philip speaks first, but it’s no relief when he does.

“You did that deliberately,” he observes. Vera flinches, but turns on the stool and smiles at him, bright and innocent. She is good at pretending to be innocent; she’s had plenty of practice.

“Did what?” she asks. It’s a mistake. All of Philip’s anger and all of his darkness show in his expression, in his body language. He is across the cabin before Vera can even begin to think about trying to escape him, and he grips her arms and lifts her off the stool. 

“ _Don’t lie to me_ ,” he hisses. He lets her go; Vera sinks back down onto the stool. Philip doesn’t back away, doesn’t give her space. He stands over her, disgust written across his face. The disgust is worse than anything else. Vera feels sick. “Don’t you _ever_ try to lie to me,” he says. “D’you hear me, Vera?”

“Yes,” she whispers. Philip waits for a moment, and then he takes a step backwards. Vera can’t look at him now, too afraid of what she’ll see. She can’t bear it, not from Philip. She can’t bear his disgust. Not when he’s accepted her so wholly up until now. 

“You did it on purpose,” Philip says again. He’s not asking a question, but Vera nods her answer. “You _deliberately_ tried to make me jealous.” She nods again. Philip exhales, and then is silent for a while. Vera takes a shuddery breath. She wants to change out of her dress, to clean away the mistakes of the evening. It was too much to expect that anyone could want her, all of her, the way Philip has claimed. She has peeled back too many layers and now he is disgusted with her.

No. No, that’s not true. He’s disgusted, yes, but not with the truth. He’s disgusted that she tried to lie to him. She knows he won’t swallow her lies, not the way everyone else does. He’ll play along with them, those for public consumption, but he demands truth from her in private. Between themselves, he will have the truth. And she tried to lie to him; that’s what has disgusted him.

But the truth…the truth is not a simple thing. Vera had wanted to provoke him to see how he would respond sexually, to drive him to hold her down and bite her and fuck her hard. But she’d wanted something else, too. It’s only now that she realises it. She’d wanted to know, she _wants_ to know, if he cares too. If he cares enough to be resentful of her dancing with other men, not merely because she is his possession but because he cares for her on a more personal level.

Because Vera is already in too deep. She sees that now, quite clearly. She is in too deep to escape unhurt when he grows bored of her, as surely he will. Her emotions are too deeply engaged to make it a clean break.

She scrambles for something to say, something to offer him. Some way to appease him. There’s nothing. All her usual lies are unacceptable now, and the truth will make her too vulnerable. He’ll be able to hurt her so easily if she tells him the truth, that he has already sunk so deeply under her skin that she’s afraid she’ll never be rid of him.

“Why?” Philip asks at last. “Why did you do it, Vera? Hm? What did you _want_?” Vera risks a glance up at him; he’s stern, and hard, but there’s confusion there too. Perhaps she can escape without bruising her heart, at least for now. She seizes on the hope of it. If he’s confused, perhaps he won’t guess that there’s more to the truth than what she willingly reveals.

“I wanted you to be jealous,” she murmurs. Philip quirks an eyebrow, just a little, as if to say ‘yes, and?’. Vera wets her lips. This is the truth, she reminds herself. It’s the truth, and he knows when she’s lying so he’ll know it’s the truth. “I wanted to see what you’d do,” she says, her voice a little stronger this time. “I wanted – I wanted you to bring me back here and fuck me so hard I couldn’t _move_ after.”

Philip looks at her, scrutinises her. Vera makes the truth sink into her skin, into her lungs, so she doesn’t flush and her breathing stays normal. It’s the truth. There’s no lie to see. The longer he looks, the more she has to fight to stay in control. And he knows how to use his silences, he knows how to _look_ at her. She hates how exposed he makes her, but at the same time…

At the same time she loves it. Oh, she is in too deep, she is caught. She is his prey, after all.

“No,” Philip says abruptly. “No, that’s not all of it. You’ve never had a problem asking yet, you’d just tell me what you wanted. You know I’d do –,”

“No,” Vera snaps. Her fear is making her angry, and the anger is pushing through the fear that engendered it. It’s reckless; she knows it’s reckless. But he’s pushing too far, and she’s too scared to be sensible. “No, I _don’t_ know,” she says. “I don’t know what you’d do.” She stands up, facing up to him. Philip’s eyes are narrowed, his mouth a thin, firm line. Vera doesn’t care. She ignores the warning signals. She’s lashing out, like a wounded animal in a trap, but she can’t help herself. “All I know is that you like to fuck me,” she says, “and eventually you’ll lose interest – because they always do – they get bored or they see too much and they _leave_ – and then I’ll be alone again, so why shouldn’t I flirt with other men?”

She’s almost shouting by the end. Breathless, sick to her stomach, she covers her mouth with her hand and stares at him. Philip is shocked, she can see that, but he can hardly be more shocked than she is. She hadn’t meant to say any of that. She hadn’t meant to be so open, so honest.

“How do you do this?” Vera demands. “How – how do you –,” He reaches out for her but she shoves him away. Then, off-balance, she almost trips over the stool and almost falls over. But Philip catches her, and though she struggles against him, he’s got hold of her too tightly. She can’t escape. He pins her arms to her sides and manoeuvres her onto one of the beds, and then he cages her, hands at her wrists and legs on hers, keeping her still and keeping her _trapped_. Vera’s instincts war with each other; she struggles, trying to twist her hands out of his grasp, trying to buck him off her. But he’s too strong, and he’s got her too firmly. He’s silent, waiting her out. He’s much more patient than she is. At last, exhausted, she lays still and pliant. Trapped in a cage, with a predator’s teeth too close to her neck.

“You done?” Philip demands. Vera closes her eyes and turns her head away from him. Philip huffs a laugh, and it makes her want to fight him all over again. He’s amused with her, and Vera has never liked being laughed at by anyone. “You prickly little viper,” he says. “You’ve been storing that venom up for a while, haven’t you?” A shiver runs through Vera’s body, unwelcome and unpleasant. Philip laughs again, soft and low. His breath is warm on her face. “Oh, Vera, Vera,” he murmurs. “You’re like a child sometimes.”

Vera opens her eyes, glares at him. “Hardly,” she says scathingly. Philip’s smile is all indulgence, and he kisses the end of her nose. Vera makes another attempt to get her hands free, but Philip doesn’t let her go. 

“You are,” he says her. “What you said earlier – about not feeling things properly. That’s true about everything, isn’t it? Everything you feel is…distorted. Love and envy and hate…” His smile fades away, leaving only cool judgement. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

She can’t lie. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.” 

“And you’ve spent so long pretending,” he says. “So very long, you could almost make yourself believe you’re like other people.” Vera flinches. She’s not like other people; she’s twisted and wrong and he _sees too much_. “But I see right through you,” he says, breathing the words against her mouth. “Do you hate me for it?”

“Yes,” Vera says at once.

“But that’s not all you feel,” Philip guesses, “and that’s why you acted up. Like a child looking for her boundaries.”

He releases her suddenly, sits back and lets her move. Vera sits up, rubbing at her wrists, not looking at him. He has peeled back her skin and looked into her bones, into the dark recesses of her mind. This is not how she expected the evening to go. Perhaps he’s right; perhaps she was deliberately trying to find the limits of this relationship. She’s seen children do it often enough. 

She wants, oh she wants so much from him. Not just physically; she wants the things that he makes her feel. They’ve known each other such a short time, but he makes her feel so _safe_. Safe from harm, safe from those who might harm her, safe from the pretence that has ruled her life for so long. But her pretences are all she has. She is built of lies. It is terrifying, the way he strips it all away and makes her face what she is.

Vera doesn’t know what love is. This isn’t what most people would call love, she supposes. It’s destructive, it _must_ be destructive, this thing between them. He’s a mercenary, a killer, and she’s…what is she? She doesn’t know enough psychology to know the answer to that. She’s wrong. She’s not capable of emotion in the way that she should be. No, this cannot be love.

“Let’s be clear, shall we?” Philip says at last. She glances up at him, afraid of what she might see. He looks calm, as if they haven’t been fighting, as if this evening had gone just as he planned. “I don’t share well,” he continues. “I’m the jealous type. Just like you. If I ever have to share you with someone else, I’ll not be happy.” 

“Philip,” Vera says, though she’s not sure what she means to say. “Philip, I didn’t –,”

“Have your fun, darling,” he interrupts, “but make sure it’s a game we’re both playing. Fair enough?” He waits, watching her, until Vera nods. The knot of tension in her stomach, the knot that’s been making her feel sick, begins to ease. Philip is talking about the future, about a shared future, and she wants to think that he wouldn’t do that if he expects to part company with her soon. “And trust me when I say I’ve got no expectation of getting bored,” he says. “Don’t be an idiot, Vera. It doesn’t suit you.”

Vera manages a thin smile. “No,” she agrees. “I – forgive me, Philip?” She can’t and won’t apologise, because that isn’t who she is, but she wants his forgiveness nonetheless. Philip frowns faintly, and looks at her with that sharp scrutiny, but then he softens again. 

“Go and wash, darling,” he says, gentle and tender in the way that he can be, sometimes. “Covering up those bruises has made you forget we belong with each other.”

Vera reaches for him then, desperate to touch him. Philip opens his arms for her, pulls her into his lap, and the kiss they share is just as gentle as his words had been. It’s soft and almost chaste, lips brushing against lips. An intimate sharing of breath. Vera grasps the lapel of his jacket and prays to a God she doesn’t believe in that she can keep Philip. She will do whatever it takes. She will let him tear away all her lies, she’ll let him have her past, if only she can keep him. Hers, always, as she’s his.

She’ll do whatever it takes, because she wants him and she almost loves him, and Vera has lost too much in her life. She won’t lose this, too.


End file.
